


A Necessary Part

by toujours_nigel



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Honeymoon, Incest, Multi, Plot What Plot, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-05
Updated: 2010-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:46:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sex on the beach. pwp?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Necessary Part

Cygnus comes upon you the third day of your honey-moon, and if Orion is less than pleased to see him, he is far too gracious to ever say so, and you are far too gleeful to let him. That night you go to dinner arm in arm with both your boys, and down to the beach in an undignified race with your brother, while your husband traipses behind you at a more sedate pace. Well enough, he has the wine, and sense enough to set it down before he stops Cygnus from throwing you into the sea.

 

“I’m not sure,” he says, and tries to look stern, “that I should let you have any of the wine; you’re already behaving like drunkards.”

 

You disentangle yourself from Cygnus’ claiming arms, and clasp arms around Orion’s neck. “Like children, surely,” you say, and kiss him, and ignore Cygnus looking away. “We haven’t your gravitas, husband, and you must forgive us the lack.” He blushes, still, to be called husband, and looks for a moment the boy he still is, and you kiss him again, to watch blood darken his cheeks. “And if you drink with us, perhaps you will see the humour in us, and find some yourself.”

 

“He hasn’t any,” Cygnus says, and you look down to find he’s filched the wine already, and started in on it. “He’s been forty since he was fourteen. You’re simply,” he says, all teeth and no joy, “far too old to remember, Burgie.”

 

“Well, this old woman needs wine,” you mutter, jovially irritable, and drag Orion down onto the sand beside you, and pull the bottle from Cygnus.

 

***

 

There are two more piled beside it, soon enough, all three of you drinking like you want oblivion and think to find it at the end of the bottles, and it seems a perfectly reasonable idea to have that swim after all, though under your own power, and not because your little brother wants to throw you into the Medi to ease some rankle in his heart.

 

“Help me get this off,” you say, climbing unsteadily up, and flattering yourself you haven’t much slurred the words.

 

Cygnus eases up to his knees, and fumbles with your skirt, but his hands slip and he leans forward to simply rest his head against your stomach, and you put a hand in his curls and ease them from his forehead. Orion is watching you, eyes hooded, and when you reach a hand to him he shakes his head and smiles.

 

Cygnus presses a kiss to your shirt and starts trying again, no skill, nor coordination, but infinite enthusiasm to get your skirt off. You hear something rip, and push him away to get a closer look, and he drags you down with him. He lands in your place, shoulder to shoulder with Orion, and you catch yourself with a hand on your husband’s shoulder, half-kneeling over, half-straddling your brother.

 

Orion takes your hand and presses his mouth to it, and looks up at you, dark eyes promising, and you laugh and kiss him, instead, nearly tipping him into the sand, and feel Cygnus’ arm go around him, holding him up. There is a hand at your hip, and a hand at your breast, and they could both be Orion’s but you have your doubts. The hand at your hip is trying its very best to push your skirt down, never mind it’s still fastened, and when you break from the kiss and look up, Orion leans heavily into Cygnus, and Cygnus looks at you with mischief in his eyes, and a certain challenge you should be too smart to take him up on.

 

But you are twenty-two, and happy, and more than a little drunk, and you cannot think why you would want to choose between them when they are both so willingly yours. So you press a kiss into Orion’s hair against Cygnus’ shirt, and another into Cygnus’ mouth. He puts a hand in your hair and holds you till you are breathless and when he lets you go, Orion’s eyes are blown wide with desire, and, flicking to Cygnus’ mouth and the line of his throat, something a lot like curiosity.

 

“Kiss,” you suggest, sitting back on your heels, draping a leg over Orion’s to trap him. “I want to watch you; kiss.”

 

Orion hesitates, but does nothing at all to hint at repulsion, or even dislike, and Cygnus, catching his breath and his cues from you, kisses him first on the forehead, then the temple, then the cheek, and the jaw, and the bridge of his nose, and his eyelids fluttering shut, till he has ghosted kisses all over your husband’s face, and Orion makes a rough sound of displeasure in his throat, and takes Cygnus’ mouth.

 

They make a very pretty picture, even fighting for control of the kiss, and Orion, outweighed and out-manoeuvred, and tipped back into the sand, reaches a hand out for you, blind, and says, in a small voice, “Walburga?”

 

He is eighteen, you think. They are both eighteen, but where you always remember it for Cygnus, where you always baby him as best you can, you always forget Orion is as young, and considerably more insecure, under that façade of perfect manhood. Eighteen and confused, and you let him draw you down, and put your arms around him, and kick at Cygnus to stop.

 

“I’d though I was comporting myself rather well,” he grumbles, and rests his head on Orion’s shoulder, laughing.

 

“Too well,” you say, and guide his hand down to Orion straining against his trousers. “Don’t be such a brat, Cyg.”

 

“Should I have stopped with a kiss, then?” He demonstrates, on Orion, and on you. “With a chaste little kiss, and both of you unplundered?”

 

“I wasn’t aware,” Orion says, and his voice is dry, even if his nonchalance is unconvincing, “that there were still pirates on the Medi.”

 

“Dreadful ones,” you say, and kiss him slowly. “They ravage all the maidens.”

 

“And are you a maiden, then?” He pulls you closer, turning half against you, his arm around you and hand untucking your shirt. “Have I been misinformed, and do women grow their hymens back?”

 

“I rather think,” Cygnus says, and mirrors Orion’s action, “that she meant you, cousin.”

 

“I’m hardly,” he starts, and then, looking down at Cygnus’ hand on his stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers. “Oh.”

 

“If you have any objections,” you say, and pull yourself up, “best get them out of the way now.” You tug your shirt off, and take a moment to smile at how that stills them both.

 

“Here?”

 

“Would you rather,” Cygnus says, and you exchange a quiet glance, “go back to the house and think it all through, then?”

 

Orion tilts his head back, against Cygnus’ shoulder, and smiles up at him, something working behind his eyes. “Forty since I was fourteen, you said?”

 

“But such a beautiful forty,” you tease, skinning out of your skirt. He will be, really, though he’s beautiful now, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, while Cygnus undresses him quietly, as though it is all simple, easy, matter-of-fact. You pull him up to kiss him, arms going around his neck in an echo of your first kiss of the evening, but Cygnus stands behind him, now, and draws the shirt from his shoulders, and lets his trousers fall.

 

“I haven’t your ease, wife,” he mumbles, the hair falling in his eyes hiding them, “and you must forgive me the lack.”

 

“Tosh. How’m I to ravage you if you aren’t maiden, cousin?”

 

“You’re far too overdressed to be ravaging anyone,” he says. Cygnus he cannot help competing with, and you wonder whether you should not gather up your divided loyalties and decide which of them to best protect.

 

“Why, so I am. Remiss of me.”

 

“Very,” you agree, and kiss Orion again, though whether to distract him or calm him, you do not entirely know. Perhaps both, and perhaps to distract yourself as well, since you do not feign surprise when Cygnus comes back to you naked as the statuary in the house on the hill. You pull your panties down and unhook your brassiere, careful to let none of it seem in any way beyond the ordinary—Orion has drunk the least, of the three of you, though that still means he has drunk a lot.

 

Cygnus moves to finish undressing Orion, and he flinches away. There is a moment where you stand looking at each other, awkward, and unsure what to do. “If you do not want to,” Cygnus says, and you can hear the tension in his voice, “you have only to say it.”

 

“Do I look,” Orion snaps, “as though I don’t want this?” He sighs, and runs hand through his hair, pulling it forward even more. “It is only that I don’t know how.”

 

***

 

It is easiest to sit down on the sand again, as you had been, and let your weight rest on Cygnus, and pull Orion close, and let them use you as conduit—because it is clear to you, if not to them, that they desire each other as much as you, and because it is perhaps the opposite of hardship, to have them both love you. You are selfish in your lusts, and not over-generous with your love, and if they ever look at you with less than the abject devotion they show now, there will be trouble. But all this you think later, and there, in the sand you only think you want Orion’s mouth at your breast, and Cygnus’ hand in you, and their mouths on each other, and Orion pushing into you, and Cygnus sucking bruises into the nape of your neck.

 

Later, when you’ve staggered up the hill with your clothes all heaped over your arm, and Orion’s arm around Cygnus’ waist, nearly holding him up, and after you’ve put Cygnus to bed—in your bed, and Orion’s the one who led him there—you think you’re teetering far too close to the edge, and what will you do, if Cygnus falls in love with some girl, if Orion grows sober and disgusted, if they find they like each other more than they do you?

 

Orion is waiting for you, in the darkness, in the corridor between the bathroom and the master bedroom, and he catches you by the wrists, and pins you neatly to the wall with hands and eyes. He’s retreated behind crisp cotton and soft wool, and you feel naked, in your negligee, without the heavy drape of your dressing-gown around you. “Did you plan this?” he asks, and he’s clearly taken some potion to siphon the alcohol from his blood, and the vulnerability with it.

You think you should have, since there were moments of awkwardness threading through the whole thing—how much Orion was willing to allow to Cygnus, of himself or of you, for instance—that could have been smoothed over had you and Cygnus only sat down for an hour somewhere, and talked it all out. Sobriety might have helped, too, though the wine had certainly been all that let you try this at all. “I did not,” you say, and meet his eyes. “I shall not deny I thought of it, but I laid no plans.”

He nods, once, only half-satisfied, and asks, “Was it just the once, or do you want this to be a regular feature of our marriage?”

You should say it was drunken folly, and you’d never wanted it. But much as you want the boy standing in front of you, his face in shadow, you want the boy sleeping in your bed, as well. And you will not choose if you need not. “The latter,” you say, and he takes you by the hand to your bed.

You wake in the morning to find them curled close together, mapping skin with hands and mouths.


End file.
